Moonlight Children
by Khalee
Summary: Matthias is part of a troupe of wandering actors staging their plays across the country. Berwald has just received his commission as the Commander of the Watch in an unfamiliar town. Witnessing a witch hunt, they decide to rescue the alleged witch without realizing they might have stumbled upon more than they had bargained for. DenNor, SuFin medieval AU. Rated M for violence.
1. Crossroads

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.

* * *

Chapter One: Crossroads

It was the time of the day the violet-eyed boy loved best, the moment when afternoon starts to melt into evening, the shadows lengthen and the sun drops low behind the trees leaving a trail of fiery clouds in its wake. His chores finished and the hour of apprenticeship in the healer's musty cottage already gone and forgotten, the boy would slip quietly up the stairs and open the attic window, climbing out on the slippery planks covering the slanted roof. His father's inn was standing higher than most buildings in town, with its three stories and the tall attic that could be lived in should the rooms prove not enough for the large number of travellers in need of a place to spend their night, and the boy would enjoy his quiet hour on the top of the world, with nothing but the sky and the birds for company. Underneath him the hustle and bustle would go on, the townsfolk in a hurry to wrap up the day's work and retire to their homes or to the inn's cozy common room, where a fire would burn brightly in the hearth and the wench would hand out mugs of mulled wine or beer.

The town was not large, but conveniently placed at the crossroads tying the harbor with the capital and other prominent cities inland, so the flow of guests dwindled, bringing the innkeeper a steady income that would provide for him and his son even throughout the harsh winter months when the roads were snowed in and men would rarely venture to journey in sleighs pulled by sturdy, long-haired ponies. From his high vantage point, the boy could survey both the spacious town square, covered in cobblestones and home to many a fair and celebration, and the four gates breaching the town walls at the four cardinal points.

In that particular afternoon at the end of October, a biting wind had begun to blow, making the boy shiver in his unsheltered spot, in spite of the thick coat he was wearing. Still he was unwilling to descend, knowing that the first snow would soon fall and confine him to the ground until the following spring. He pulled his hood up and waited for the slow stream of townspeople to make their way to the inn, his signal that he should climb down and help his father handle the evening's customers. Yet, though the hour was growing late and the shops had begun to close, no tell-tale chime of the bell hanging above the door sounded and the flow of men and women was leading away rather than towards the inn. Frowning, the boy squinted in the near-dusk, his eyes following the way in which the crowd was heading; some were making for the western gate, where a large, colorful wagon pulled by two horses had stopped, its occupants being undoubtedly questioned by the watch. But the bulk of the mob had taken the road to the northern gate, running urchins already reaching a wooden cart surrounded by armed guards and carrying two figures huddled together. It was still too far to catch a good sight, yet the boy's eyes grew wide as he picked out dark, hooded robes among the blue uniforms. The watch and the church joining together was never a good sign and he could think of only one reason that would justify such an alliance and their incursion outside the northern walls, where nothing laid but a rather small patch of land bordered on two sides by the forest and sheltering some dingy huts claimed mostly by the foreigners and the dispossessed. Clutching the window frame with panic rising in his chest, he leant forward and let out a sharp gasp as a stray ray from the setting sun caught the advancing cart and shone on golden and silvery locks.

"Tino Väinämöinen, come down here this instant!" The sudden sound of his father's voice broke his concentration and the boy almost lost his grip and slipped off.

Tino peeked off the roof edge at his father, who was standing in the middle of the street with his arms crossed and his eyes glaring daggers. Well aware that he should not keep his father waiting if he valued his own skin, Tino dropped in through the window, without noticing the tall, intimidating rider who was entering the town through the harbor gate.

Tino flew down the creaking stairs and reached the empty common room just as his father was closing the door carefully behind him. Without catching his breath, the boy ran across the room and grabbed his father's sleeve, making the taller man turn to him.

"Tell me.. tell me what's going on," he gasped.

The innkeeper sighed heavily and drew his sleeve out of his son's grasp. "Those two foreign lads you've been sneaking to see, you will forget you ever knew them and pray nobody else remembers. They stand accused of witchcraft and will be put on trial by the orders of Abbot Olav."

Tino stomped his foot and scowled at his father, the shyness he normally felt in the presence of the older man all but forgotten. "You knew about it didn't you? You and who knows how many other damn cowards who did not even think about warning Lukas and Emil, let alone help them escape! One word from Abbot Olav and you all dance for him like puppets..." A sudden hit against the side of his head put an end to his flow of angry words and sent him one step back, clutching his cheek.

The innkeeper was staring at his son in disbelief. In all his seventeen years of life Tino had rarely strayed from his cheerful, gentle self and never had his innocent eyes flashed with so much wrath. "You are still young, boy," the man spoke in a low but hard voice, "and have yet to learn that the church wields the power of fear and how fast it can sway the hearts of men. For your own good you'd better start learning fast."

Tino opened his mouth to answer back, when the growing din of the approaching crowd made its way through the open windows. He shoved past his father and rushed out in the street, pushing his way through the approaching townsfolk, earning himself more than one glare and curse. As he ran, tears that had nothing to do with the sting against his cheekbone began to gather in his eyes.

* * *

Outside the western gates, two beleaguered guards were eyeing suspiciously a large, wooden wagon, painted garishly in purples, greens and blues, and the equally flashy young man with blond hair sticking up at impossible angles, who was grinning from ear to ear while holding the reins of two sturdy horses.

"I assure you, my good sir, we're only a troupe of travelling actors and we ask nothing but the privilege of performing our awesome plays in front of the good men and women of.. of... what is this god forsaken place called again?" The last question was addressed in a loud whisper to his companions gathered in a neat row behind him, and it was met with several annoyed groans.

A shorter man with shaggy blonde hair and a piercing green gaze underneath unbelievably thick eyebrows rolled his eyes and took a step forward. "Gentlemen, I am Arthur Kirkland, playwright. If you have not yet heard of me and my work, do not worry, for we have been on the road for many weeks now with the very purpose of bringing the many joys of theatre to the culture-deprived people in the countryside. Now if you gentlemen allowed us through and pointed us in the direction of the nearest inn, we would certainly not take any more of your valuable time."

The guards scratched their heads in unison and gave each other a dazed look. "Do you people carry any weapons?" one of them ventured.

"No weapon but the blunt contraptions that the plots masterfully devised by myself might constrain us to wield during our engaging performances."

"Fine, then get moving," the other guard waved them through, eager to be rid of the strange lot. "Follow the street along the monastery walls until you reach the market place, then head left. The inn is a tall building with green window panes, you cannot miss it."

"And this is how it's done," Arthur hissed pointedly at his taller companion who was resuming his place on the driver's perch. The young man scowled and stuck his tongue out.

As the wagon began to move forward with a strike of the reins, they could still hear the guards grumbling behind. "Carl and Steffen, those bastards, we should've never agreed to change watch with them. What with the new commander being awaited tomorrow, and that witch hunt, and those damn clowns passing through, all we need now is the whole town to catch fire."

The companions exchanged worried looks. "I believed witch hunts had died down years ago..." Arthur murmured, his eyes rapidly searching the street to catch sight of the unruly child running circles around the wagon and waving a wooden stick. "Peter, get inside and don't come out until I say so."

"No I won't! You're not my father to tell me what to do!" Peter squealed and threw the stick at the blonde man, who easily sidestepped and launched himself to catch the boy by the scruff of his neck.

"I am your older brother and you will obey me!" Arthur bellowed and carried the struggling child to the wagon. Unconcerned about flailing limbs and shrieks, he threw the boy inside, slammed the door shut and locked it. A sound of heavy objects thrown against the walls followed suit.

The others did not bat an eyelid at the all too familiar scene. Arthur's outburst had left his fellow actors, a slender, tall woman and a man hidden underneath a hooded cape, to walk alone by the side of the road. The woman pushed her chestnut hair out of her eyes and chuckled. "You'd better go in and fetch your wig before it gets torn to shreds, Gil, or so help me, if we're forced to flee one more town because you tricked some God-fearing folk into believing you're the devil made flesh, I'm delivering you to the first church myself and taking over your roles."

Gilbert offered her a mischievous smirk, his eyes flashing red under the shadow of his cowl. "And get unawesomely bruised right before my big performance? No way. And besides," he added with a wink as he tucked inconspicuously away a few stray strands of white hair, "the only one willing to claim _your _roles would be Feliks, and I could bet ten mugs of beer that Matthias won't feel the same inspiration to rescue him from your evil clutches."

"Damn right I won't!" the tall blonde shouted down from his perch, earning himself an indignant "Hey!" from the long-haired man sitting next to him.

Arthur fell back into pace with them, his eyebrows still knitted in annoyance. "If you bloody twits are done plotting how to ruin my plays, better start figuring out how to get past that." He pointed at the group of people blocking the road to the left, just as Matthias cursed and pulled on the reins sharply. The man stood up and surveyed the street from his height.

"The damn crowd grows thicker further on and there's no way we can push through. You could wait here or move on until you find an opening, there should be another way to get there."

"What do you mean, 'you'?" Arthur asked. "Where are you going?"

Matthias dropped back down. "I want to take a look at the witch before she disappears into a puff of smoke. Feliks, take the reins, will you?"

The smaller blonde pretended to be very busy studying his fingernails. "I don't want to, driving totally gives me blisters."

"Come on Feel," Matthias whined, "are you mad at me? It was a joke, a joke!"

"I'll drive," the woman offered, and Matthias jumped down to allow her to take his place. "Thanks, Liz, don't order dinner without me!" he shouted, before disappearing into the moving crowd.

Arthur moved closer and threw her a hard look. "A witch hunt is no laughing matter, Eliza, you should not encourage him." She sighed.

"If he does not witness it, he will never learn, will he?"

* * *

Matthias pushed his way through, the grin gone from his lips as soon as he had turned his back. Around him, the townsfolk was moving onward, the men chatting pleasantly, the women leaning to each other to whisper and laugh, some holding their children's hands or carrying them into their arms. Soon they would witness some helpless creature being hurt and humiliated and enjoy it as a welcome distraction from the day's toils, and would then return to their homes and jest about it over that evening's supper. Matthias gritted his teeth as he watched them pass by. Like so many times before, he could already see the lust for violence creeping on their otherwise good-natured faces, the sight equally enticing and repulsive, like the slithering coils of a snake preparing to strike. And like so many times before, he'd watch them from afar, unable to tear his eyes away, hating them and hating himself for not lifting a finger to rescue those so unfairly punished for being feeble or different or simply alone. Matthias was no coward, far from it; yet life had taught him early on that the world was no longer a place for heroes but could be so much more forgiving towards a seemingly loud-mouthed fool.

As he walked on, the street became wider until it opened in a large square, where groups of people had already begun to assemble. Whilst he swept the area in search of a quiet corner on the outskirts, Matthias felt a sudden strike against his back and turned around fast enough to catch sight of violet, tearful eyes, but before he could say anything the boy disappeared in the throng. He shrugged and made sure he still had his purse, then made his way to lean against a tree, half-hidden by the thick trunk. Judging from the approaching din, he knew he would not have long to wait.

The first to rush in from a nearby street were a wild flock of children, shrieking and laughing and shoving one another, only to scatter in the crowd when a pair of guards eyed them menacingly. And then, in a clatter of hooves and wheels against the cobblestones, a pony-pulled cart came into the open. It was a crude contraption, nothing more than thin planks of wood fastened together on four wheels and bordered by low rails on two sides, and just large enough to fit the two prisoners it was carrying. The crowd shifted to allow the cart to pass and Matthias cursed under his breath in surprise as the captives came into view and he found himself staring into empty, indigo eyes.

It was a rare occurrence indeed when the clergy did not seek the next victim in their war against witchcraft amongst the womenfolk, yet Matthias understood at once why they had settled upon the man kneeling in the moving cart. He seemed very young, barely an adult, and his delicately shaped features held a fey look that conjured up visions of sprites and elves from old legends. His eyes were the most bewildering though, large and devoid of any feeling, and as he held his head high proudly his gaze never drifted, as if absorbed into a world beyond. His body was gracefully built, with fine, narrow lines and slender limbs, making him appear almost frail in the midst of the burly, tall guards; and yet he had been no easy prey, if one were to judge by the battered looks of some of his captors. Matthias smirked at a watchman gingerly prodding his broken nose, while other was sporting a black eye and a ripped uniform. Yet he wished the prisoner had been less brave, less defiant, for the offended men had been quick to exact their revenge. His lower lip was split and swollen, a trickle of blood had congealed into his hairline and down his cheek, staining his long, blonde hair red, and more bruises and cuts showed through his torn shirt. His hands were tied behind his back and then fastened against the rail so tightly that his shoulders were nearly twisted out of their sockets; still, nothing betrayed his pain but the rigid set of his jaw. The second prisoner was less cruelly bound, and was kneeling with his body pressed against the other's, eyes closed and head buried against his shoulder. Under startlingly silver locks, his half-hidden face betrayed the same graceful contours, his boyish features bearing a close resemblance to the other man in a way that only a brother's could, and Matthias shook his head in pity at the understanding.

None of the townsfolk though appeared to share such feeling, and instead they eyed the display greedily, whispering expectantly in each other's ears. Whatever the two captives had done, Matthias surmised, could not have been so terribly offensive, for the crowd appeared to be seeking entertainment rather than retribution. Still, a stone flew to collide against the side of the cart; surprised that it had missed its target at such a short range, Matthias turned his head in the direction it came from, only to spot a man cursing and clutching his side, while behind his back a nimble figure was moving deftly away. Matthias smiled as he recognized the violet-eyed boy from only moments before. "Brave, kid, but not fast enough," he muttered, knowing that once the first stone was tossed the second would be quick to follow.

And indeed, right at his side a man bent down to pick a sharp stone and readied his arm for the throw. Almost instinctively Matthias reached out to stop him, but his hand froze midway when both prisoners turned their heads to focus their gazes on the assaulting man with an uncanny synchronicity, the younger boy's now open eyes glinting a deep shade of purple. Under their withering stares, the man froze, the stone dropping from his hand. He swallowed hard, then found his voice with a loud yell. "Witch!"

Matthias groaned. Cries of "Witch!", "Devil!" and "Burn them!" rose all around , and more townsfolk were arming themselves with stones. Across him, the same boy ran into a group of men in a desperate attempt to stop them; but he was pushed away, and as he stumbled, he caught Matthias' eyes. Without missing a beat, Matthias elbowed the nearest man in the stomach, though he knew that their efforts were worthless against an entire mob. A stone hit the prisoner against his already tortured shoulder and his face twisted for the first time in a grimace of pain, as he struggled to shelter his brother with his own body.

It was then that a rider entered the square at a gallop and, pulling on the reins with one hand, grabbed a man's raised arm and twisted it, making him lose his grip on the stone he was holding.

The newcomer was a tall, imposing man, dressed in a blue military uniform and riding an equally massive horse. His stern features bore a menacing frown as he advanced towards the watchmen, glaring at them harshly from behind wire-rimmed glasses. All other movement ceased at his intimidating presence and the crowd held their breath, waiting for him to speak.

"My name is Berwald Oxenstierna and I am to be your commander. I demand to know what is going on."

The watchman who appeared to be the leader of the small band spoke up. "Commander, we were not expecting you until tomorrow. We are under orders from the Abbot to apprehend these two witches and bring them to the monastery for trial."

Berwald looked down at him with disdain. "Since when does the Watch take their orders from the clergy?" The guard stuttered for an answer under the unforgiving glare, but Berwald was no longer minding him. He dismounted and approached the captives, and, cupping the blonde man's face with his hand, he tilted his head upwards. Indigo eyes stared back defiantly, and Berwald let go with an impenetrable expression. Drawing a dagger from his boot he cut in one swift move the rope that held the prisoner tied against the rail, and the young man slumped against his brother with a barely heard sigh.

Berwald spoke again in a ringing voice, his gaze sweeping the gathered townsfolk. "These men are to be taken to the town prison and put on trial by the Magistrate. There will be no talk of the Church taking the law in their hands whilst I am in command."

"Excuse me, Commander?" The voice had come from a short, stout monk, looking up with a cunning gaze from beneath his cowl. Next to him, a second monk was shifting uneasily, his lowered hood revealing red-rimmed eyes and dirty, lank hair around a bald patch. "I am Prior Tobias, next in rank only to the Abbot. Abbot Olav is acting by orders from the Bishop himself to root out and apprehend the witch threat in order to preserve the integrity of our Church."

Berwald threw another look at the prisoners, taking in the silver-haired boy's wide, frightened eyes as he was supporting his injured brother. "Do these orders also entail tormenting children?"

"Children?" the other monk cried out in a high-pitched voice. "The devil's temptations know no age, and these wretched creatures," he pointed with a trembling finger, "are no children! It's the devil that keeps them young-looking!"

"Enough of this nonsense!" Berwald barked. "Move aside, and let this Abbot Olav know that he is more than welcome to seek me out should he wish to complain against my decision."

Prior Tobias bowed his head. "The Abbot is now making ready to conduct the evening's prayers, but come morrow, you will hear from us again, Commander."

Berwald nodded and dismissed the monks from his attention. "You two," he gestured at the nearest watchmen, "lead the way to the prison. The rest of you, disperse the crowd."

As the cart began to advance again, Matthias found himself pushed back by a guard. "Move on people, nothing to see here anymore," the man grumbled. Matthias raised his hands in an appeasing gesture and backed away in a nearby alley. The sun was setting and he was certain to get lost in the dark, unfamiliar streets, but he had no wish to return to his companions just yet, his mind too crowded with strange, inscrutable eyes and unanswered questions.

* * *

By the time the slowly moving convoy reached the Watch house, the town had plunged into darkness, with no other light to breach it under a clouded sky than the candle lit windows. The Watch owned one of the few buildings in town surrounded on three sides by a high, iron fence, its ends lodged in the stone walls, and at a guard's shout, a man bearing a torch came down the front staircase and unlocked the gate. Berwald dismounted and tied the reins to a post. "Bring them in," he ordered, and watched as the guards helped the captives enter the courtyard and go up the steps into the house, their movements unsteady on numb legs. The prison itself lay half underground, its walls only partly visible on the outside to allow for narrow windows blocked by thick iron bars, and Berwald took hold of another torch as they negotiated the stairs down. Along a corridor, heavy wooden doors stood open.

Berwald stood still for a moment to consider the surroundings. "Separate cells," he instructed. "Untie the boy and bring him something to eat." The purple-eyed boy opened his month to protest, but a warning look from his brother silenced him. Unperturbed, Berwald placed his torch in a holder and gestured for the other prisoner to enter the nearest cell. The young man shrugged as much as his bound hands allowed him and stepped inside. Berwald followed and before the captive could turn around, he stopped him with a hand on his shoulder and cut the rope around his wrists. The prisoner flinched in surprise, and once his hands were free he took a step forward and turned to face the other man.

"You have nothing to fear from me," Berwald spoke.

The young man had yet to utter a word. His eyes darted to Berwald's face and studied it for a long moment; when he finally decided to speak, his voice came out soft but hollow.

"I do not fear you, I am simply questioning your motivation."

Throughout his adult life, Berwald had become familiar with the fear, or uneasiness at best that his tall stature and stern, commanding countenance inspired, so he looked with hidden astonishment at the young man who was calmly confronting him in spite of his own precarious position. "What are your names?" he asked.

"Lukas Bondevik," the prisoner answered, "and my brother is named Emil."

"I've never believed witchcraft was real," Berwald paused when he believed to see a fleeting smile cross the other man's lips, then dismissed it as an illusion of the flickering torchlight, "and yet I cannot let you go for there are many who will keep hunting you down, so I will make sure your names are cleared in a fair trial."

Lukas rolled his eyes. "Fair trial? For a man in your position you are quite naive, Berwald Oxenstierna. If you truly wish to help then make sure that no matter what happens to me, my brother will be kept safe."

Berwald raised an eyebrow at the half-veiled insult but decided to let it go. "I intend to keep both of you safe. For now, you will be sent food and I will find someone to treat your injuries."

Lukas shook his head. "I don't need anyone, just send me clean rags and some water."

"Fine," Berwald conceded, understanding the other man's need for solitude. "I will see you again in the morning." Nodding in farewell, he left the cell and bolted the door behind him.

Once alone, Lukas let himself slide down against the wall, resting his head on the cold stone, his eyes closed and his normally impassive features contorted with anger. "Stupid, stupid, stupid," he hissed through clenched teeth, his fist pounding each time the hard ground. He sat breathing heavily until the door cracked open and a cloth and a wooden bowl were deposited unceremoniously on the floor, water splashing out the rim. Lukas sighed and dragged himself to his feet, looking around his cell for the first time. The torch had been left outside in the corridor and it threw a dim light through the barred opening in the wooden door. The cell was small and empty save for a rickety stool and a poorly looking bed, covered by a worn blanket; a window breached one of the walls, too high to reach. Lukas picked up the bowl of water, sat down on the bed and opened his already torn shirt. He gritted his teeth as he ran his fingers over the place where a guard's boot had collided against his chest; a nasty bruise had been left behind, but thankfully no rib seemed to be cracked. Another careful touch proved that the skin on his forehead was split but not deep enough to require stitches, so Lukas ripped a piece of cloth, dipped it in water and wiped off the blood as best he could.

A sudden rush of cold air made him shiver and reminded him of the window, so he stood up, placed the bowl filled with bloodied water carefully in a corner and lifted the chair, steadying it against the wall. Once he climbed on it, he could reach just high enough to rest his elbows on the thick stone wall and peek through the bars at the outside world. His cell was on the side of the house bordered by a back street, and the window was so close to the ground that even in daylight he could not have seen anything but dirty cobblestones.

As he stood there, a single ray of moonlight pierced through and came to rest on the ground. Lukas reached out through the bars and the moon ray came to dance for a moment on the palm of his hand, only to be whisked away by the amassing clouds. Lukas' fingers closed around empty air. With a sigh, he stepped down and sank on the bed, his mind empty as he followed the shadows wavering on the wall in the dying torchlight.


	2. Glimpses

Chapter Two

_The world feels so much different through half-closed eyelids. Pale light dances on trembling eyelashes, colors swirling and shifting, white melts to gold, gold to crimson, crimson to darkness. In the heart of the vortex only one hue remains unchanging, and Tino struggles to recognize it, is it blue? Green? Is this the sky above him? Nothing seems right, and he is close to tears, the need to remember so intense, so vital. And suddenly he knows. Lavender, delicate petals swaying in the breeze, fields and fields of flowers laying at his feet. He draws a deep breath, hungry for the fresh, pungent fragrance, yet the smell comes metallic, and he does not understand why it hurts so much to simply breathe, why his body rattles. A steady drip lingers at the edge of his hearing - rain? Are these raindrops trickling down his outstretched arm and through his fingers?_

_A new sound forces his eyes open and violet orbs swim into focus before him, familiar and yet so wrong, frozen and empty and sunken. He tries to look away but his body does not obey him, and his heart rushes in fear when a shadow falls on his face and slender, cool fingers brush against his forehead. His lips are gently pried open and a sweet liquid runs down his tongue and he cannot help but swallow. His head feels more clear now and his chest is no longer too tight to breathe and he can finally take in the stranger leaning above him, his gaze hard, his mouth drawn in a thin, angry line. The stranger's palm is now pressed against Tino's arm, holding tight, and his lips move in a silent whisper. The fingers come away bloody, but as his arm is carefully set down along his body, Tino can feel a dull pain_ _along his veins_ _slowly fading, and wonders why he became aware of it only now, when it's gone. The stranger is reaching to the tightly sealed window, and Tino wants to yell at him to stop, the healer warned that cold air would make the pain in his chest worse, but no words come out and the window swings open, and Tino forgets all he wanted to say, for the fresh air feels so good and God he's never seen the moonlight so bright. It shines like a halo in the stranger's blonde hair, and Tino suddenly realizes that the doors are locked at night, his father and the healer are sitting motionless in their chairs, living statues, and his mother lies on the bed, her lavender gaze empty, and he asks, eyes round and innocent, "Are you an angel?". The stranger's grim mouth softens in a half-shaped smile, and his voice is a soothing monotone. "Hardly. I am Lukas." The stranger comes to kneel next to his mother's bed, and his fingers caress her eyelids close. "I am sorry," he whispers, and Tino has to struggle to make out the words, "I came too late, I am so sorry. But you can be at peace for your child will live." With a sigh he stands up, and Tino understands with a searing clarity that his mother is gone, and remembers how the healer drew their blood with the promise to take the sickness away, and now he knows it was wrong, so wrong, and must not happen to anyone else, ever again. He cannot let the stranger go, but he's already pushing the door open, and in his haste Tino forces the blanket frantically away and stumbles on the cold wooden floor and his fingers grip the man's coat tightly as he turns. "Teach me," he gasps, "teach me how to make people well again."_

_The stranger looks down at him, his face unreadable, his gaze searching deep into Tino's eyes, but the child does not shy away, and finally a subtle shift in the stranger's features shows he's given in. He lifts the child in arms that feel slender yet strong and sets him down on the bed, covering him with the discarded blanket. "When you are old enough I will come find you. Now sleep." And Tino's eyes close despite himself._

* * *

It was painfully early when the persistent pounding against his door dragged Tino out from the murky depths of his nightmare-ridden sleep. Instinct took over his half-aware mind and his body struggled to rise, but the sheets tightly twisted around his still numb limbs held fast and he lay back on his pillow, his hair drenched with sweat, his breath erratic. A ghostly pain still pulsed on his skin where jagged wood had dug sharply against his dream flesh as he was kneeling on an unlit pyre. Every fiber of his being was screaming at him to run, to lose himself in the crowd of faceless onlookers, but Lukas was a dead weight in his arms, his lips coated with blood, and Emil was holding his shoulder in a desperate grip. A torch was thrown and flames sprang high, dancing and fluttering like a wind-swept veil, yet Tino could feel neither heat nor burn when the fire brushed by him, _through_ him. The silver-haired boy was wailing in agony at his side but Tino did not turn; instead he twined his fingers into Lukas' and lifted the inert hand, watching in fascination as the flames licked at his friend's skin, leaving his own unscathed. The air grew thick with ash and from Lukas' fingers nothing remained but bleached bones, still Tino could not take his eyes away, even as the first traces of consciousness began to unravel the fabric of his dream world.

He was blinking dazedly, the memory of flames still playing behind his eyelids, when his father cracked the door open. "What's keeping you, boy?" he inquired, frowning at Tino's disheveled state. "The guests are waking up and I need you downstairs."

Drawing a deep breath, Tino managed to muster just enough composure to keep his voice from shaking. "I'll be right there, Father," he answered, yanking his legs free from the tangle of sheets. The innkeeper shot him a warning look from beneath knitted eyebrows and pulled the door shut.

It took several minutes of fumbling for fresh clothes in the gloom before Tino realized that the wooden shutters were closed against his windows and the soft light of dawn was pouring in through the cracks. Cursing his sleep-addled brain, he unlatched the shutters and leaned out, letting the cool air chase away the last traces of his nightmare, and as the sunrise set the clouds ablaze he promised himself he would not dwell on omens of death. All his life he'd been set apart by an utter faith in miracles that had yet to be shaken, and his heart remained bright where others might have turned jaded or fallen prey to despair. His had never been a charmed life, spared from grief and tears, but even as a child, as he had cried and suffered for his mother, he had never ceased to cling to the one ray of sunshine in the darkness - the stubborn belief that he'd been stolen from the clutches of death so that he, in his turn, could spare others from the same fate. And finally, at the end of two years, when he'd all but put the memory of Lukas out of his mind as a fevered dream and had taken apprenticeship with the healer for the meager knowledge he might gain, Lukas came back, just as he had promised. Tino had come across him one evening only two steps away from the healer's gates, sitting under the shadow of a pine tree, and had stopped in his tracks dumbstruck, torn between the joy that Lukas was not a figment of his imagination and the amazement that the young man had known exactly where to find him. Lukas had raised an amused eyebrow. "I see you've waited for me," he had drawled in that impassive voice of his, and Tino had no other answer but to throw his arms around the other's neck and cry his heart out in relief. Lukas had flinched at first, but then his arms had closed around the boy, warm and comforting, and Tino had not let go until small, jealous hands had tried to pry him away. The strangest child he had ever seen was glaring at him with round, purple eyes from under silver locks, and with his lower lip sticking out in a pout so adorable that Tino could not help but smile and ruffle his hair, making the child frown even deeper and hiss and spit at him like a kitten. Lukas had burst into laughter, something Tino would discover to be a sight quite rare. "Come, Emil, play nice," he had chided, "the two of you will be spending a lot of time together."

And, true to his word, he had begun to teach Tino the very next day, asking for only one thing in return - that Tino would keep going back to the healer and pretend that all his newfound skills came from the old man. Lukas possessed the knowledge of herbs and shared it willingly, yet Tino would wonder more often than not what else he was hiding, and what was really happening during those nights when yet another of the townsfolk would recover miraculously from the brink of death, and the following day he would attend his two lessons, the overt and the secret, only to find the healer boasting about his craft and Lukas almost swaying on his feet, with dark shadows under his eyes and his mind elsewhere. He had never pried though, not even in the beginning, when the two brothers would every so often unsettle him with their odd ways, and as months passed by he discovered that behind his cold eyes and emotionless mask Lukas would actually listen, and that Emil's endless bickering was only meant to hide how much the boy really cared. And somehow this made Tino feel at ease, more so than in his own home, where strangers would come and go, and he and his father would tiptoe around each other, the older man too worn out to have any patience for a son who could still dream and take joy in life, and Tino too painfully aware that he might never grow into the strong, down-to-earth son his father desired. The stolen hours spent with his new friends became treasured memories to be cherished, which were only marred by the barely hidden fear that one day the reclusive brothers would choose to depart from his life as mysteriously as they had appeared. Yet never had he foreseen that one day they would be so ruthlessly taken away, nor did he give in to the notion that they might be lost to him. His friends had lived to see another day, and that was enough for him - even if fate did not rescue them, Tino would do everything in his power to find a way.

Tino's mind was brimming with half-shaped plans as he rushed down the stairs, so oblivious to the outside world that he failed to remember a certain wobbly plank that had been waiting for quite some time for its turn to be mended. His foot caught in the treacherous step and he tumbled down, his arms flailing madly but failing to reach the rails, only to crush head first into the tall, blonde man who was emerging with a yawn from the first floor corridor. The man yelped in surprise but regained his footing with ease, then held out his hand for Tino, who had toppled to the floor in an unbecoming heap.

"We really need to stop meeting like this, kid," he smirked, and Tino's eyes widened in mute recognition as the scene from the day before replayed in his mind. The man mistook Tino's silence for fear and winked conspiratorially. "Don't fret kid, your secret is safe with me!"

Tino ignored the proffered hand and picked himself up from the floor. "Don't call me that," he muttered, poking gingerly at the freshly bloomed bruise on his arm. It rewarded him with an uncomfortable stinging, and he could not help but feel satisfied when a woman approached and smacked the obnoxious blonde on the back of his head.

"Are you harassing children now, Matthias?" she asked in a menacingly sweet tone.

The said man grinned sheepishly. "As a matter of fact, the young man here has just pointed out that he is by no means a child, so the answer to your question is no, Lizzie." He ducked to the side just in time to avoid another blow aimed at his head, and then disappeared down the stairs.

The woman huffed in annoyance. "How many times do I need to tell you not to call me that!" she shouted after him, then turned to Tino and shrugged apologetically. "Don't mind him, he's an idiot."

Tino nodded solemnly. "I noticed."

The woman burst into laughter, her green eyes twinkling with merriment. "You, I like," she declared. "Come see our play, will you?"

With a wave, she followed her companion, leaving a bemused Tino behind. Their guests had always come in all shapes and sizes, but those two struck him as the strangest pair yet. It was mostly the man, Matthias, who seemed particularly difficult to figure out; even in his frantic rush to keep the townsfolk from hurting his friends, Tino had not failed to notice the stranger who appeared equally intent on putting an end to the violent display. Yet Matthias' brash ways made quite an odd match with his deeds from the day before and even as the thought to try to gain him as an ally crossed Tino's mind, he knew that it might not be the wisest choice he could make, unless all else failed and he was down to crazy, last resort plans. With a sigh, he went down the last flight of stairs and into the already busy common room, catching sight of his father hurrying with a tray laden with empty plates.

"You surely took your own sweet time, boy," the innkeeper grumbled as his son came to join him. "The new Commander is taking permanent residence here and you are to attend to him, understood?"

As his father pushed him towards a small table at the back of the room, Tino's heart made a joyful somersault. Once again, life had dealt him a lucky card in the shape of the frighteningly tall man whose face seemed frozen in a never-ending scowl, and who had more power than anyone else to change the fate of his friends.

* * *

Matthias stifled another yawn as he descended the last steps. He had found his way to the inn in the late hours of the evening and, once inside, had come across his companions engrossed in a noisy conversation around steamy mugs of wine. Plastering his usual grin on his face he had made a half-hearted attempt to join them, but halfway through his first drink he had found his brain to be not only strangely devoid of any trace of his impressive collection of bad jokes and nasty remarks, but also uncharacteristically allergic to his companions' merriment. So, having declined all offers of dinner or further drinks, he had feigned tiredness and retired to bed early, but not before several inquiries upon his health had been thrown his way in mock concern. Even so, sleep had failed to come and he had kept tossing and turning long after Gilbert had come to claim the spare bed, and only when a pillow hit him square in the face and the albino informed him in no uncertain terms that he'd be spending the remainder of the night out in the street unless he calmed down had he settled in a restless sleep. As a rather foreseeable outcome, morning had found him both unbelievably lethargic and ravenously hungry and at a loss of what itch to scratch first, and only the thought that as soon as breakfast was over either Arthur or Elizaveta, or even both if his luck ran out, would barge in on his sweet sleep and force him to go unfed through the rest of the day had made him drag himself from the bed and out of the room.

And as the first whiffs of freshly baked bread and fried bacon reached his nostrils, Matthias stopped regretting his decision and quickened his pace as he crossed the room to the long table occupied by his companions. He only paused on his way to pick up Peter, who was making rude faces at the stern Commander of the Watch from behind the shelter of a large barrel; reluctantly admiring the man's composure - no muscle on his face had stirred either in amusement or annoyance - he deposited the struggling child on the bench next to his brother.

"I found something of yours, Arthur," he informed the smaller man with a straight face. Arthur frowned at the child, who instantly kicked him in the shin. The man burrowed his head in his hands.

"Sometimes I wonder why I even bother," he groaned.

"That's why," Gilbert paused from shovelling food long enough to point in the general direction of the two buxom serving wenches, who were already cooing and throwing adoring glances at the child. Matthias took advantage of the moment of distraction to drop on the bench next to the albino and steal a piece of buttered bread from his plate.

"Thank you Gilbert, my life makes sense again," Arthur replied, sarcasm dripping heavily from every word. The albino grinned and pushed his hair away from his eyes. He was wearing a dark wig that concealed completely his snow-white hair and made his eyes shine a reddish brown rather than their usual crimson.

"You can always count on the awesome me to assist my friends in need!" As Matthias' hand snaked to grab another morsel, Gilbert slapped it away with his fork. "Get your own food, will you?"

"So much for helping a friend in need," Matthias complained, but signaled for a wench to approach.

Gilbert waited for the other man to order his breakfast, then asked, "So what sort of witch did they catch this time? A hag who grew one too many warts? A maiden so pretty that she made all other women jealous?"

Matthias' eyes darkened. "Neither. A man and a boy, brothers I believe."

"Men?" Gilbert raised an eyebrow in surprise. "What's wrong with this town, did they run out of misbehaving women? Let's go away before I die a painful death in the clutches of boredom."

Matthias ignored him, and began to trace a crack in the wooden table, his features suddenly hard. "There was something in their eyes I could not quite place, as if they had seen things the rest of us could not reach. And they were trapped, tormented, yet they showed no trace of fear." He looked up and met Arthur's gaze just in time to catch a glimpse of interest on the other man's face.

Arthur coughed and looked away. "So they were brave witches. Much good will this do when they try to wrest a confession out of them. You'd better forget about them already Matthias, you know very well that once the Church has someone in its grasp it won't let go no matter what."

The three men continued to eat in embarrassed silence, which was only broken once Elizaveta joined them with Feliks in tow. "What's with the long faces?" she asked, throwing a puzzled look from one man to another. Neither of them answered. "If you had another fight, you'd better settle it soon, for we have a busy day ahead. The innkeeper told me that we should be able to perform in the town square but we must ask permission either from the Commander of the Watch or from the Magistrate. And as the Commander sits only a couple of tables away, I'd say we seize the chance and speak with him now."

"But you'll do it without me," Feliks chimed in. "That man is, like, giving me the creeps."

Five pairs of eyes turned in the direction of the already infamous Commander, but to their surprise the scowl on his face was almost gone in the favour of what could only be described as amusement, as the man was staring at a certain lavender-eyed boy.

* * *

Having grown up in an inn, Tino had had his fair share of dealing with (or rather seeing them dealt with thanks to his father's brawn and menacing frown) drunkards, rough sailors, shady merchants and countless other individuals of dubious repute, yet none of them had turned his knees to jelly in such a fashion as the approaching sight of the Commander's hard expression was doing. The man looked, Tino believed, as if he was prepared to slaughter an entire host of outlaws, eat their livers and come home for a second supper, all in a day's work. And due to the devious workings of Tino's mind, the thought was immediately followed by the rather disturbing image of the Commander trampling on maimed corpses and taking bites from a bloodied liver that seemed altogether to large to have belonged to a human being. So the boy dragged his feet after his father reluctantly, searching in vain for a happy thought that might purge the troubling fantasy from his brain.

Oblivious to his son's distress, the innkeeper strode purposefully across the room and stopped next to Berwald's table, coughing politely. Berwald lifted a questioning gaze.

"Commander Oxenstierna, this is my son, Tino," the innkeeper pushed the boy forward. "He spends most of the day helping me run the inn, so please ask him whenever you need assistance." Berwald nodded and the innkeeper rushed away at a guest's call, leaving Tino alone and extremely ill at ease under the man's hard glare.

As the uneasy silence lingered, Tino began to panic. _Say something, you've got to say something_, he thought frantically and blurted out, "G-good morning, I hope the liver was to your liking."

Berwald raised an eyebrow and looked from Tino to his plate, which contained the harmless remains of a cheese pie and some egg shells, and then back at Tino. The boy cursed inwardly. _Great, now you've made him angry, you need his help, you must not upset him even more. _"Ah, the cook finally served something else than liver for breakfast, we've been trying to make her stop for ages, haha.." _You'd better close your mouth before you say something even more stupid. _He frantically scanned the Commander's stern features for a sign of appeasement; his gaze fell on the man's eyes, so easy to overlook as they lay hidden behind wire-rimmed glasses and his breath stopped. They had the most fascinating hue of blue-green, shifting like the ocean's waters, and hid no trace of malice - to Tino's amazement, they were rather shining with something akin to mirth. The boy drew a deep breath. _Start again, you can do it, Tino._ He extended his hand in greeting.

"Good morning Commander, my name is Tino, is there anything I can help you with?"

Berwald's lips curled upwards in the beginning of a smile. He pushed his chair back, sat up and took Tino's hand; it disappeared completely in his much larger one. "Call me Berwald. And I need you to show me the way to the stables."

At a nearby table, Arthur put his fork down hurriedly and tried to rise. "Come on, we need to catch him before he leaves."

Elizaveta's hand pushed him back down. "Don't you dare disturb them now, Arthur Kirkland!"

Gilbert looked from Elizaveta's enraptured features to the unlikely couple and burst into laughter. "You have a dirty, dirty mind, Liz." Arthur had just picked his fork up again when it was snatched forcefully from his hand only to connect painfully with the albino's head.

* * *

Berwald followed Tino into the broad backyard which hosted the wooden stables and a covered shelter built to accommodate the occasional cart or two. His expression had frozen back into his habitual scowl, his sternly chiseled features not accustomed to sustain a smile, yet inwardly he was enjoying himself more than he'd expected when he had woken up for the new day. The morning's first task was already laid out for him and he had the distinct feeling that the news of his newly appointed Commander of the Watch having set in motion a conflict with the Church with the full intent of winning it was not what the Magistrate expected from his first audience with the aforementioned Commander. Berwald was steeling himself for the unpleasant encounter when Tino's unexpected intrusion broke his train of thought, and as his gaze fell on the boy, he became instantly aware of two things: Tino possessed the kindest, loveliest face he has ever seen, and was obviously terrified of being in his presence. Berwald could not blame the boy as he knew very well that dark thoughts made his forbidding countenance even more frightening, and sighed inwardly, expecting Tino to turn tail and never come within his sight again. And yet the boy stood his ground and, much to Berwald's surprise, was the first to break the silence. Granted, the man could not make heads or tails of Tino's words, but for reasons that escaped him he found Tino's stumbling speech unbelievably entertaining, and even as the boy appeared to warm up to him and revert to a relative coherence, Berwald was still secretly amused by the workings of Tino's mind.

"I love animals so I'll be very happy to look after your horse," Tino said as they were passing by a large wagon which, due to being altogether to tall to fit under the shelter, was taking up a ridiculous amount of space in the middle of the courtyard. Berwald winced at the mess of bright colours that covered the wagon's sides, hoping he would never have to meet the owner of the garish contraption. "I wish I could have a puppy someday, you know, the small and fluffy kind, but Father says that an inn is not a place to keep a dog, as it could disturb the guests or annoy their horses. But," Tino turned for a moment to see if Berwald was following, which left the man wondering how the innkeeper could resist those round, endearing, lavender eyes and deny his son the dog he wanted so much, "I still hope to come across a puppy so cute and well-behaved that even Father won't have the heart to drive it away... oh my gosh what was that?"

A string of shrill neighs pierced by desperate cries for help sent both men running towards the stables, where they were met with the sight of Berwald's horse rearing up in its stall and hitting the ground with its menacingly large hooves, narrowly missing a small figure huddled in terror against the wall. Berwald rushed forward to grab the horse's mane, but Tino was faster; taking advantage of his small frame, he ducked under the horse's legs, took hold of the child and rolled beneath the planks separating the stalls and into the adjoining enclosure, which, by a sheer stroke of luck, had remained unoccupied. It took all of Berwald's strength and patience to calm down the agitated horse, and when he was finally able to let go, he stepped hurriedly into the neighboring stall, half-dreading what he would find. To his relief, both Tino and the child seemed shaken but mostly unharmed. Tino was kneeling on the straw, trying to soothe the frightened child, who was sobbing and dripping tears and snot on the older boy's shirt. Feeling that he might do more harm than good, Berwald leant against a post, taking Tino in with a newly found respect.

"Hush, hush, it's all over," Tino whispered against the child's hair. "Please stop crying and tell me your name."

A tiny voice was barely heard between sobs. "P'ter."

Tino nodded. "Very good, Peter. Now do you want to tell me what happened?"

"I wanted to play with the horse and it got mad at me!" Peter bawled.

"Oh Peter," Tino sighed, "horses are not toys to play with, they are big, strong animals that can sometimes hurt you if you're not careful around them. Now let me look at you to see if you're all right." His eyes passed rapidly over Peter's body in search of wounds, but the child's clothes looked dirty yet intact. "Do you hurt anywhere?" The child shook his head. "Good, then run along to your parents."

The child did not wait to be told twice and bolted through the stable door. Tino got up and smiled sheepishly, shaking off straw from his hair. "I wonder what made it behave like that, it seems so gentle now," he pointed at the tall horse, who now looked every inch the tame, friendly animal.

Berwald lifted his hand. Several dry, prickly thistle heads were resting in his open palm. "I found these in its coat."

Tino's eyes widened. "Oh, that little rascal! I'm going to have a word or two with his parents. But why didn't you say anything to him?"

Berwald shrugged. "I didn't want to scare him more than he already was."

Tino hesitated for a moment and then a content, bright smile lit up his face. "You are a good man, Berwald. I trust that you will do right by those who need you."

* * *

If there was something he missed about the capital, Berwald mused, it was the reassuring certainty that whenever his thoughts became too dark or his duty too heavy to bear, it would be an easy feat to conceal his uniform beneath a cloak hastily thrown on his shoulders and become part of the crowd, an inconspicuous figure in the mass of men and women too lost inside their own worlds of worries and plights to spare a second glance for the tall stranger who crossed their path. Here though, the town was just large enough to allow its trade and population to flourish and yet just small enough to have every new face and every intriguing incident debated over suppers, at gates or around market stalls, and turned upside down and inside out until the original event became barely recognizable under a thick layer of gossip. As he made his way along the street leading to the Magistrate's house Berwald could almost feel the inquisitive stares burn holes in his back and had to pretend not to notice the way in which the townspeople stopped their activities to whisper to each other behind their open fingers. This was what he wanted, he reminded himself. He had been equally cursed and blessed with a strong, imposing body awkwardly sheltering a gentle heart, and with a withdrawn, quiet nature paired with an instinctive revulsion against injustice of any kind. And in the end, it was that very anonymity which he now half-regretted that had proven to be his worst enemy. While his noble heritage ensured that he would not join the military as a mere soldier, a nobleman could be as easily lost among those outranking him by age or by status as a commoner in a crowd, and Berwald found out soon enough that he was too tightly restrained by orders and position to make any significant change for the better. Yet what he lacked in influence he steadily gained in respect, and at the early age of twenty-two, when his peers were still engrossed in the fleeting delights of drinks and duels, he was deemed trustworthy enough to be granted the role of Commander vacated by his deceased predecessor. Berwald was well aware that to many others such a position would seem lackluster next to the more engaging life in the capital, but he accepted it readily, for it allowed him the freedom he craved. And, as his steps finally carried him to his destination and a servant ushered him to the Magistrate's parlor, he strengthened his resolve to make use of his position to protect those wronged, even though this would force him to break out of his comfortable shell of silence and the fate had made a cruel joke and brought in his path a proud, disillusioned prisoner who did not trust him and was sure to test his patience in more ways than he could imagine.

To his surprise he was requested to wait, and, having declined the offer of a seat, he leant against the window sill with his arms crossed. The muffled sound of voices was drifting in through an adjoining door, and Berwald tried not to worry himself too much with trying to guess what kind of pressing matter had brought the unknown visitor on the Magistrate's threshold at such early hours. Instead, he let his gaze wander around the room, in an attempt to figure out the nature of the man he was waiting to meet. The space was large and well used, with overloaded bookcases lining the walls and plenty of snug-looking armchairs skillfully placed in front of the fireplace and around a low, polished wooden table. A piano rested in a corner, with piles of music sheets neatly arranged on its cover. And yet this was the kind of furniture which, without going too far with adornments or carving, still seemed delicate enough to make the men of Berwald's size feel ill at ease, and the fire was burning too strongly in the hearth, giving off an almost stifling heat.

Before Berwald could lose his patience, the door opened and a man emerged, followed by a figure shrouded in black. Berwald took a step forward to greet them, and both men took a moment to study each other in silence. The Magistrate appeared to be in his early thirties, and displayed the appearance of a cultured man, with sparkling, intelligent eyes framed by glasses and black hair falling around his face in the studied mess that artists sometimes adopted. Yet his expression was haughty and his mouth was set in a line that seemed equally cunning and stubborn, and Berwald became painfully aware that he would not have an easy time of dealing with the man standing in front of him.

The Magistrate held out his hand for Berwarld to shake. "Commander Oxenstierna," he spoke with a well-polished accent, "my apologies for keeping you waiting. I am Magistrate Roderich Edelstein, and I believe you've already met Prior Tobias."

"Commander," the monk nodded, his eyes glinting challengingly from beneath his hood. "My duty is regretfully calling me elsewhere, but I'm sure we shall see each other again soon."

Berwald's eyes narrowed slightly at the unwelcome sight, but he did not let his annoyance show, nodding back at the monk with a chilling politeness. "I'm looking forward to that time."

"I'm sure you do," Prior Tobias chuckled. "Now, Magistrate, Commander, I will take my leave. Please do not bother to summon anyone, I know my way out."

Roderich waited until the retreating monk disappeared behind the door, and then turned to Berwald. "If you would be so kind as to follow me to my study, Commander..."

Berwald let the other man lead the way, and at the Magistrate's invitation he sat down on one of the two chairs facing a massive desk cluttered with paperwork. Roderich went round to the other side of the desk and took a seat in his own chair, letting his arms rest on the wooden surface, with his fingers interlaced.

"So, Commander," he spoke again, "as pleased as I am to make your acquaintance, I must say that word has reached me that you caused quite a commotion yesterday in the town square."

Berwald deadpanned. "Then you've been misinformed, for the disturbance was already well under way and my involvement only lead to dispersing it."

Roderich took a deep breath. "You are very young, Commander, and having lived in the capital, you are also clearly unfamiliar with our customs here, in the countryside. The Church is a powerful presence in our lives, it plays quite an essential role indeed, and it has proven to be quite beneficial for all parts involved when the Church was allowed to punish the crimes against God unhindered, while the likes of you and I only concern ourselves with, ahem, the more mundane kinds of trespassing."

By the end of the speech Berwald was seething inside, but did not let it show. Instead he forced his voice to remain level. "With all due respect, Magistrate, the Church is meant for spiritual support and guidance, and not for exacting justice of any kind. Sharing such privileges with it will only lead to diminishing your authority, and more so now, when I've already taken the first steps in taking justice back in our hands, where it belongs. The prisoners we took in yesterday should be offered a fair trial before any decision concerning their fate is made."

Roderich sighed. "Sadly, under these circumstances you are right, Commander. The good Prior Tobias did come and ask for the prisoners to be restored in his hands, but I could not grant him his request because you and I are serving under the same laws and my words need to support your deeds for my Watch to keep their authority in this town. However, I did promise him that the prisoners would be taken to court and would be given to the Church to be punished as the Abbot sees fit, should they be found guilty. Also, I had to promise that you will not involve yourself in this trial and all decisions will be taken by me, and I trust that you are wise enough not to force me to break my word."

Berwald nodded. "Fair enough. However, I must ask in my turn that the captives will not be surrendered to the Church for interrogation. My notion of fair trial does not involve the accused being tortured until they confess to anything to be rid of the pain, as the Church is well-known to do."

Roderich regarded him coldly. "That was never my intention, Commander. Believe it or not, I do not revel in unnecessary human suffering. I've arranged for the trial to begin tomorrow after the Mass, for the sooner we have this situation off our hands, the better. Now if you will excuse me, I have important matters to consider and I am sure that due to the late hour of your arrival, you have yet to introduce yourself officially to your Watch."

Berwald stood up with all his imposing height and bowed his head slightly. "It's been a real pleasure to meet you, Magistrate Edelstein."

Roderich watched with a quizzical look as the door closed behind the other man. "A real pleasure indeed," he murmured.

* * *

Lukas was sitting cross-legged on the bed, pushing the heels of his hands hard against his eyes, until his vision became filled with swirling dots of light. For the first time in his life, he was utterly, completely trapped, with no discernible means of escape. He had spent his night drifting in and out of sleep, jolting awake from the bonds of muddled nightmares, his eyes snapping open to dim, flickering light, and then, as the hour grew late and the torch died down, to unwavering darkness. It was by a sheer effort of will that he had fallen back to sleep every time, banishing all thoughts from his mind, with the certitude that he would need all his strength come morning. Still, in spite of all his efforts, dawn had found him with a clouded mind and panic pulsing wildly in his chest, and he had dug with his bare hands at the stones and iron bars blocking the window until pain had brought him back from his haze. And now, fighting back the shame for his moment of insanity and paying no heed to his throbbing, bloodied fingers, he was forcing himself to think, to regain the coherence that kept fleeing just out of his grasp.

And yet it was the sound of the bolt sliding across the door that made the final lost pieces of his reason snap back into place, and his body tensed as the door opened. An unfamiliar guard stepped in bearing a plate and a cup of water, and Lukas almost allowed himself to breathe out in relief, when the newcomer was pushed away by two men with their faces marked by bruises that Lukas recognized only too well.

"You are still in our debt, little witch," the man with a black and swollen eye sneered. "We had to give a hefty sum to the healer for the damage that you caused and we intend to make you pay for it," he paused to move his eyes up and down the younger man's body, "in any way you can."

"And besides, we've been so thoughtful and brought you breakfast, the least you can do is show us some gratitude, don't you think?" the other man added and spat in the cup. His broken nose had been badly set, surely turning breathing into quite a painful affair, as Lukas observed with no small amount of satisfaction.

As the cell door was shut and the three men advanced towards him, Lukas stood up, his mind working frantically. His way to the door closed and all his opponents were taller and heavier than him, but this time he was alone, without Emil to protect, and this gave him a better chance at defending himself. He shifted with slow, careful movements, without taking his eyes off the guards, in an attempt to reach the chair, the only weapon he could think of. Yet his intention was obvious and the man with the swollen eye rushed at him, pinning him against the wall with his superior bulk, while the other kicked the chair away. Lukas' head hit the stone violently, turning his vision black and allowing the larger man to restrain his unresisting arms and to cover his mouth with a dirty hand. As Lukas' sight cleared, the man with the broken nose was removing his belt and his sheathed sword, throwing them carelessly on the bed, while the other guard looked him straight in the eye.

"Listen to me very carefully, witch," he hissed. "Now I will let you go and you are going to behave, unless you want us to visit your little brother when we are done with you. Understood?"

Lukas did his best to nod under the hand that was crashing his head against the wall, but as soon as he felt the pressure ease, he sank his teeth hard in the other man's palm, drawing blood. The man yelped and took a step back, giving Lukas enough space to slide from under his body. Without missing a beat, Lukas pushed himself free and darted away, narrowly escaping the guard's attempt to take hold of him again with his uninjured hand. The man with the broken nose was advancing on him, but Lukas rammed his shoulder into his attacker's chest, putting all his weight behind the blow, and the man lost his footing and collapsed to the ground with Lukas atop. Lukas did not stop to think. He smashed his fist instinctively into the other's face, feeling the already damaged nose crush under his fingers, and as the stunned man wailed in pain, Lukas rolled off him and seized the discarded sword, retreating into a corner before the third man, less determined than his companions, could try and subdue him.

With a steady hand, Lukas pointed the sword at his assailants. "If you come any closer," he stated in a level voice, "I will gut you like the pigs you are."

"You little piece of shit!" the man with the swollen eye cursed and unsheathed his own sword. Lukas gripped the hilt tighter and prayed for a miracle, well aware that he would not hold his own for long against two trained swordsmen. And, just as the swords crossed, the door flew open and a strong arm pulled the guard away, throwing him to the ground. The man swore and looked up, his gaze encountering the angry face of his commander.

"Out," Berwald ordered.

"But sir..." the guard complained, pointing at Lukas who was till holding the sword raised in front of him.

"Don't bring weapons in a prisoner's cell unless you intend to hold on to them, imbecile," Berwald growled. "Now get out."

Cowering under Berwald's glare, the guard lifted his wounded companion off the floor and left the cell with staggering steps, closely followed by the third man. Berwald turned to his prisoner and cursed under his breath as he took in Lukas' face, ghostly pale and frozen in an empty mask, lips still smeared with the blood his bite had drawn. Berwald lifted his hands up in an appeasing gesture and from his corner Lukas met his eyes with an ice-cold stare, then took one step, then another towards the open door, without lowering his blade.

"You will not get far," Berwald warned in the calmest tone he could muster.

To his confusion, Lukas nodded. "I know. I only need to get as far as the next door."

"Ah. Your brother." Berwald's arm reached out. "You can stay with him until the trial, so hand me that sword."

"When?"

"Tomorrow."

Lukas drew a deep breath, then, ignoring Berwald's outstretched hand, he threw the sword at his feet, his eyes daring him to lift it. Berwald sighed and stepped over it. "Your face," he said. "You might not want your brother to see you like this."

Lukas raised an eyebrow. "What about it?" He wiped the back of his hand over his face; specks of dried blood clung to it. "Ah. It was not mine."

The corner of Berwald's mouth twitched. "I had figured as much," he said, and walked out into the corridor and to the opposite door, without turning to see if Lukas followed. He lifted the iron latch and, as Lukas reached him, he pushed the door open. The silver-haired boy was leaning against the farthest wall with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face, but, as he caught sight of his brother, his eyes widened in silent surprise. Lukas pushed past the taller man, went in and slammed the door shut without sparing him a second glance; Berwald shook his head with a half exasperated, half intrigued look in his eyes, then bolted back the door and went to retrieve the discarded sword.

Pausing in the middle of his brother's cell, Lukas became aware for the first time of the dull throbbing at the back of his head and a spell of dizziness overtook him. He staggered to the bed and fell on it face up, with his eyes closed. As he fought a wave of nausea, he heard Emil's footsteps approach hesitantly.

"Lukas, what's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing, I'm just tired, is all," Lukas replied without opening his eyes.

A new weight pressed against the bed as Emil leant on his hands above Lukas' head. "You don't have to lie to me, I'm not a child," the boy's voice sounded reproachfully.

Lukas forced his eyes open to meet the two pools of purple from which all the innocence of childhood had been banished by fear and anger, and a twinge of guilt shot through him. "I was not lying, I am tired as well."

Emil frowned in annoyance, but climbed in bed next to Lukas and lifted his head in his lap, brushing a cool hand against his forehead. He opened his mouth to ask something else, then closed it back and bit his lip.

Lukas sighed, knowing very well what was weighing on his brother's mind. "Come on, say it."

"Are we going to get away alive?" the boy whispered.

Both brothers fell silent. "We will try," Lukas finally answered, and Emil nodded and began to rub soothing circles in his brother's hair. Lukas closed his heavy eyelids and the shade of a smile passed over his lips as he recognized the same patterns his fingertips used to draw in the silvery locks years before, when Emil would wake up crying from bad dreams.

* * *

Author's note: So this chapter took forever to write, only to end up as a mess of random scenes and most likely butchered grammar. I want to thank everyone who had the patience to read through it, and for all the favs, follows and reviews. I'm always happy to read your notes and they really help me improve.

Also the rating went up to be on the safe side, because apparently I cannot stick to a "normal" level of violence.


	3. Mist (part 1)

Chapter 3: Mist (part 1)

_This night, like countless times before, Lukas allows slumber to seal his tired eyes while his mind still lingers half aware, his brother's reassuring weight pressed against his right arm, the child's soft, even breath marking a soothing rhythm at the edge of his hearing. The house is empty and covered in a comforting kind of darkness filled with familiar shapes and sensations - the pungent smell of herbs laid out to dry, the outline of the bookcase standing barely visible in the dying firelight, the branches of the tree which he would climb to read or simply to daydream for hours on end snapping against the window pane in a gust of wind. A door creaks open, and Lukas drifts to sleep, safe in the knowledge that his parents are finally home._

_When he awakens at the pressure of a hand on his shoulder, he knows from the heaviness creeping along his limbs and the haze slowing his thoughts that he could not have been asleep for very long, minutes perhaps, and he has to blink several times before he can make out the shape of his father's face from the surrounding shadows. Lukas tries to speak, but his father shakes his head and presses his fingers against the boy's mouth with an uncharacteristic urgency that silences Lukas even more than the restraining hand. He pulls his arm carefully from underneath his brother's sleeping body and stands up on unsteady legs, fear clutching his mind with ice-cold claws. "Get dressed," his father hisses and Lukas moves instinctively to the pile of discarded clothes from the day before, putting them on one by one with stiff hands, and watching as the older man locates Emil's warm winter coat and wraps it around the sleeping child. Emil whimpers but does not stir, and his father stands still next to him until the child's breathing evens, then he steps soundlessly out of the room, motioning for Lukas to follow. The corridor is cold and Lukas cannot suppress a shiver as he takes in his father's tense features. The older man's cloak lies discarded on the wooden floor, and he picks it up and fastens it around his son's neck, then takes hold of his shoulders and grips them firmly. _

_"You need to take your brother and run," he whispers in a tone that does not allow for resistance. "Your mother and I, we've been careless. There was a woman we could not save, the corruption was too advanced, and we were seen going out of her house. Now," he sneers and Lukas cringes at the sight, "we are being blamed for her death and for bringing the plague upon the town. There is an angry mob heading our way so you have no more time to lose."_

_Lukas' mind feels too numb to protest when a leather satchel is shoved in his hands and his fingers discover through the fabric the outline of a book he knows only too well. As his father pushes him back in the room he bites hard at his lower lip and asks, although he already knows the answer. "Where is Mother?"_

_The man shakes his head grimly and lifts the still sleeping child, pausing to place a kiss on top of the unruly silver hair before relinquishing him to Lukas' arms. _

_"Run as far as you can and do not stop to fight back if you are followed, I will try to buy you time. Remember everything we taught you and protect your brother. I..." his eyes grow soft and he cups his elder son's face with his hand, "your mother and I love you both so much, and we wanted to spare you for as long as possible from our burden. I am sorry that you have to carry it so young."_

_Lukas wants to scream at his father that he does not need to stay behind, that they can escape together, but the clamour of an approaching crowd reaches them and the older man's mouth constricts in a thin line of resolve. "The window, quickly," his father presses, and Lukas tightens his hold on his brother as he pushes the window open and climbs outside, dropping with ease to the frozen ground. His heart beats too fast and he allows himself to slip to his knees, taking in deep, calming breaths, his torso bent protectively above Emil's sleeping form. Inside, a door slams open and as heavy footsteps march in, his father's mocking voice drifts out, "Good evening to you, Mayor, and to you, your Holiness. I'm humbled that you chose to come in person."_

_Lukas forces himself to move and crawls on all fours until he is safely away from the window, then jumps to his feet and darts through the back gate like a shadow, grateful beyond belief that only a fence and a thin strip of land separate him from the edge of the forest. A wide dirt trail cuts through the trees and Lukas follows it for a while, easier to run without stumbling against roots and stones, but when his lungs start to burn and his arms grow too weary under the weight of the child he staggers as far away from the path as he dares, wary of getting lost in the thickening forest with nothing but the light of a waning moon as guidance. He finally collapses on the upgrown roots of a gnarled tree, and Emil stretches and yawns on his lap, his eyelashes fluttering open, but Lukas hushes him and the child settles back to sleep._

_He feels barely rested when his reason pushes him to move on, but as he tries to get up a nearing clatter of hooves paralyses him, and he curses under his breath when the horses stop not far away from his hiding place . _

_"Hold the reins, will you? I have to piss," a rough voice sounds, and Lukas listens with growing dread as the man dismounts heavily, makes his way between the trees and relieves himself with a satisfied groan._

_"Since we stopped, we might as well take a look around, though God knows that the witch spawn could be anywhere by know," another voice suggests and is met with grunts of approval. _

_More men dismount and approach the tree line and Lukas can count at least five flickering torches spreading in a half circle. He knows that it's too late to run and they can only have a meager chance of escape if the men do not venture too close, but they will surely be discovered from afar should light fall on their fair skin and hair. So Lukas pulls his hood up and clutches Emil to his chest underneath the cloak, wishing desperately that his brother would not awaken, and that the shadows or the tree bark could swallow them. And when the voices approach and their pursuers stop only steps away and yet fail to see them, Lukas is astonished but does not dare to lift his head or even to breathe, although the men's words make him seethe._

_"The little demons hide well," a voice grumbles, as its owner's boot hits the dead leaves in annoyance. _

_"And if we find them, what then?" another asks. _

_"We show them our mercy and send them to rejoin their parents in hell, what else," the rough voice chuckles._

_"And who would take it upon himself to kill children?" the other voice falters._

_The first man spits on the ground, and his voice is bitter. "The older one has seen at least fifteen winters, I'd have him dance at the end of a rope next to his witch mother without any remorse. As for the child... I've lost three sons to the black death, one of them just a babe in swaddles, and I will say nothing more."_

_The men move away in silence, but Lukas remains still as a statue until he hears them reclaim their horses and ride on, and as the sounds die down Emil begins to struggle in his arms._

_"Lulu.. .choke..." the child whines and Lukas releases his too tight hold on his brother, placing him on his feet on the forest floor. The child patters on the fallen leaves around him, apparently unfazed by the strange surroundings, and all of a sudden he rushes back into Lukas' arms, pressing both his palms against his brother's face._

_"Lulu, why sad?" he asks, his purple eyes shining eerily as he gazes up at his brother, and Lukas covers the child's small hands with his own, only to discover the wet traces of tears he does not remember having shed. "Where are Mama and Papa?" Emil looks at him questioningly, and Lukas draws his fingers through his brother's tangled locks, his throat suddenly dry._

_"Emil," he whispers, "there's just the two of us from now on."_

_The town unfolds like a ghastly carnival of stenches, debris and refuse as Lukas walks along a deserted street in the grey light of the early dawn. The darkness of the night has begun to fade away from the clear sky but on the ground shadows still linger, molding here and there around prone figures which Lukas refuses to acknowledge, just as he keeps himself from turning his head to see once again the dark column of smoke rising in the distance, near the edge of the forest where his home used to stand. When the muffled sound of his steps is met with a pained moan, Lukas withdraws behind the cover of a protruding wall, his gaze darting from one dark corner to another, yet nothing moves but the large rodents circling around a fallen shape in the gutter. Lukas swallows against the bile rising in his throat and when a rat scurries towards him, rising on its haunches to sniff at his boot, he kicks it hard, hurling the squealing animal against the flagstones. _

_Emil tightens his grip under the shelter of the cloak and Lukas whispers reassuringly to his brother as he resumes his pace, his eyes alert for danger. Yet no living soul stirs behind the barricaded windows, the town still cowering under the threat of the deaths the new morning may reveal, and it's too early for the undertakers to come out and collect the night's tribute. Still, Lukas curses again the urge he was not strong enough to resist, and which sent him wandering the streets of the plague-ridden town in search of a closure he might never attain. He knows he will soon be forced to abandon his search so when he finally stumbles upon the body of the woman, gently swaying from the makeshift gibbet, he can only feel relief. _

_"Emil," he murmurs, hunting with his free hand for the sheathed dagger he had been so relieved to discover in his satchel, "I will let go now. Hold on to me and remember you promised not to peek."_

_The child wraps his legs tighter around his brother's waist and scrunches his eyes shut, and Lukas relinquishes his hold just long enough to reach up and cut the rope, one arm keeping the slight body from falling. As soon as the dagger has cut through he lets it drop and grasps Emil, concealing him again inside his cloak, and his arms cradle both his precious burdens, the living and the dead, as he lowers his mother's body to the ground. His eyes are dry and his face frozen in an impenetrable mask as he works loose the knot around her swollen neck and brushes her hair away from her brow. Underneath the light strands her empty eyes are as purple and round as Emil's and Lukas presses the eyelids close with a shudder._

_"Farewell, Mother," he whispers, his voice so low he can barely discern it himself. "I will do everything in my power to keep Emil safe, I swear it."_

_He stands up and turns away and, as his steps carry him farther, emptiness shrouds his features like an immutable veil._

* * *

Two sleepless nights in a row, Matthias mused, were a small price to pay for the rare occasion of watching Elizaveta's expression change from a belligerent determination to disbelieving perplexity when the young woman threw the door open with the obvious intent of making as much noise as possible, only to find her tall companion already awake and buttoning his long, black coat at an hour which Matthias himself had claimed loudly and repeatedly to be too early to possibly exist. As she opened and closed her mouth, swallowing whatever speech she had intended to deliver, Matthias offered her a wide grin.

"Now, Lizzie, you know that you don't have to try so hard to catch me naked, all you need to do is ask," he teased.

Elizaveta narrowed her eyes, unimpressed. "That joke is getting too old for its own good, Matthias. Where do you think you're going?"

Matthias shrugged, combing his fingers through his hair in the mirror but only managing to make it stick at even stranger angles. "Out."

The young woman threw him a warning look and strode resolutely to the bed where Gilbert was still snoring obliviously, fully buried under the blankets, while Matthias' lips curled upwards in a knowing grin as the man drew a chair and made himself comfortable for the upcoming show. Elizaveta caught hold of the albino's blanket and yanked it so hard that the man rolled over the edge, his head clashing against the nightstand on his way down. Gilbert's crimson eyes snapped open instantly, flashing in murderous intent, but the sight of Elizaveta's triumphant smirk made him sink back on the carpet.

"What the hell, woman," he grumbled, clutching at the newly acquired bump on his head.

"Get dressed, we're going to church," Elizaveta announced drily, taking a step back to glare at both men.

Two identical groans echoed from opposite sides of the room.

"Why on earth should we do that?" Matthias protested, wishing he had made his escape while Elizaveta had still been busy tormenting his companion.

"Because," Elizaveta retorted, bending to pick up the messy pile of clothes lying on the floor next to Gilbert's bed and reinforcing every other word with an accurate toss at the albino's head, "we happen to find ourselves among God-fearing people upon whose goodwill and generosity we depend, so when the entire town goes to Mass we follow and say our prayers like the good little Christians that we are. Any more questions?" Both men shook their heads. "I didn't think so. I'm waiting for you outside so don't even consider running away or loitering around until the service ends."

With Elizaveta gone and the door safely closed, Gilbert picked himself up from the floor and fished his pants from beneath the discarded clothing. "I'll return the favour if you distract the she-dragon WHOM WE ALL RESPECT AND LOVE," he hollered when an angry tap on the door followed the ungentlemanly epithet, then continued in a lower voice, "while I find myself a hole to hide in for the rest of the morning."

"Don't even think about it, mate, that's one lady I don't want to mess with right now," Matthias laughed, "and besides, you know you never keep your promises. Why don't you try the window, you should be close enough to the ground to escape with only minor injuries."

Gilbert gave him the finger, then went to open the window and leaned out just in time to see Arthur exchange a polite greeting with an officer of the Watch, who disappeared afterwards inside the inn, and then resume his pacing up and down the street, with an unusually quiet Peter following him like a lost puppy.

"It's no use, she's set a watch dog down there too," he grumbled in Matthias' direction, then threw another suspicious look outside. "I must have hit my head worse than I thought, it's the first time I see that brat actually behaving around Arthur."

On the other side of the door, Elizaveta smiled at Tino as the boy passed by her looking uncomfortable in his stiff Sunday clothes. Tino waved back shyly, and then moved on to knock on a door at the end of the corridor; when the response delayed to come, he stretched and stifled a yawn, then promptly blushed a deep shade of red as the door flew open mid-gesture to make way for Berwald to stare at him from behind his glasses.

"I, I, brought you what you asked me yesterday," he stammered, handing the other man a neatly wrapped package. "And there's a guard downstairs waiting to speak with you. And good morning." He drew a deep breath and attempted a half grin.

Berwald nodded in thanks while hiding a smile of his own. The evening before, the violet-eyed boy's chatter had proven to be quite a welcome respite after a day jarring in so many ways and he had found himself awaiting their next encounter with an eagerness he still found difficult to justify. Yet, as he walked down the flight of stairs in search of his visitor his frown returned, together with the suspicion that the early call would only reveal more trouble from his volatile prisoner; and, when he caught sight of the tense figure of a man he recognized as one of his lieutenants, his suspicion turned into certitude.

The man approached him and saluted.

"Good morning, Commander. My apologies for disturbing you at such an early hour, but some monks arrived at the Watch House claiming that Abbot Olav obtained permission from the Magistrate to have the prisoners attend the Mass, and you ordered yesterday that nobody is to enter their cell except in your presence."

"Thank you. You did well to seek me out," Berwald replied with a nod of approval and headed for the door closely followed by the other man, without noticing that Tino had listened in on everything that was said, nor the worried look that the boy had thrown after him.

* * *

Berwald's less than pleased gaze ran for a second time over the slip of paper that the eldest of the trio of monks had handed him. It appeared genuine, and in all honesty he did not believe that they would go as far as to fabricate a document that could be so easily disproved, and yet he could not dismiss a strong feeling of apprehension. The monks, none of them bearing a familiar face, were watching him patiently.

"The time is running late, Commander," the eldest monk finally broke the silence, "and the service is about to begin. Surely you would not deny those unfortunate souls one last opportunity to repent in front of God."

Berwald could think of no reason to refuse their request and his frown deepened.

"Fine," he conceded. "Wait here, I will bring them."

The few watchmen present were already alert and waiting for his orders, but Berwald gestured for them to wait before pushing open the heavy door leading to the prison. In the small room preceding the flight of descending stairs, two guards were seated at a wooden table, playing cards under the torchlight; upon Berwald's entrance, they abandoned their game and rose respectfully.

"Anything to report?" Berwald asked.

"Nothing, sir," one of the men shrugged. "They've been as quiet as mice down there, we did not hear a sound all night long, nor," he added hurriedly, remembering his orders, "did anyone attempt to pass by us."

Berwald reached out for a torch. "We will have to move the prisoners. Arrange for an escort, and then you are dismissed for the day."

The guards nodded and disappeared through the open door, while Berwald made his way once more down the stone stairs and through the narrow corridor. The underground prison had been built half as wide as the house above it, with no windows breaching its walls on the left side, and as Berwald stepped into the occupied cell his lungs constricted in protest at the stale air that met him. His eyes met Lukas', who was sitting on the edge of the bed, squinting in the sudden outburst of light; next to him, the silver-haired boy was still fast asleep, his face hidden by his long locks and one hand grasping tightly at his brother's.

"Is it time?" Lukas asked softly, and Berwald nodded.

"Almost. You were requested to attend the Mass, the trial will start afterwards."

Lukas sighed and bent to whisper in his brother's ear, his words indistinct, his fingers brushing rebel strands of hair from the boy's eyes, and Berwald looked away, suddenly awkward, feeling as an intruder upon something treasured. His gaze fell on the remains of the previous day's meal, the tray lying on the floor still half untouched, and he shook his head in disapproval.

"We are ready," Lukas' voice announced, and Berwald turned to face his prisoners. Wordlessly, he handed the smaller man the packet he had been carrying with him, and when Lukas raised an inquiring eyebrow, Berwald pointed at his torn and bloodied shirt.

"It wouldn't be right to force you to go out in the cold wearing only that."

A fleeting look of disbelief passed over Lukas' eyes, followed by one of outraged recognition when the unfolded cloth revealed a clean shirt and a coat knitted from soft grey wool, with a delicate snowflake pattern at the cuffs.

"I don't know what you're trying to do," he hissed, his knuckles white as he clutched at the garments, "but do not dare involve Tino in this God damned mess."

Only the silent surprise at the revelation that sweet, innocent Tino might be acquainted with the two brothers so closely as to bring out such an outburst from the elder kept Berwald from reprimanding the prisoner whose insolence was beginning to wear his patience thin.

"It's just a coat," he answered coldly. "I suggest you wear it if you don't want to freeze to death in addition to starving yourself."

Lukas held his gaze challengingly, but feeling his brother's pleading touch on his shoulder he pressed his lips in a thin line and turned his back, tossing the clothes on the bed and starting to undo his buttons. Hearing noise on the corridor, Berwald stepped out to meet the approaching guard, who held out a pair of handcuffs connected by a short chain.

"We are waiting for you at the entrance, sir," he said. "Should we use these?"

Berwald pondered. He would not even consider putting the boy in chains, but he had learned to be mistrustful of the elder brother's deceptively impassive façade. "Just for the man," he decided and the guard nodded and entered the cell to fasten the shackles around Lukas' wrists, who paled at the new humiliation.

Four armed watchmen were standing at the gates together with the small group of monks. When the prisoners emerged, the elder monk raised his hand in blessing and began to utter a prayer, but the sight of Lukas' withering glare made the words die on his lips.

In spite of his growing annoyance with the prisoner who was seemingly intent on doing his best to aggravate his situation, Berwald chuckled inwardly.

* * *

The church was a towering masterpiece of dark stone and stained glass large enough to fit most of the town's population, its ivy-covered walls and massive arches standing tall in the midst of the monastery grounds. By the time the small convoy reached the gates, the last row of townsmen had trickled in and only the black figure of Prior Tobias was waiting by the carved church doors.

"Commander, I almost believed you would not make it," he greeted Berwald with a saccharine smile as he waved them in.

Berwald decided to ignore the monk's unwarranted friendliness. "We would have certainly arrived sooner if the necessity of bringing the prisoners to attend the Mass had been made known to me yesterday. Will I have the honor of finally meeting Abbot Olav as we have much to discuss?"

The monk's features recomposed themselves in a look of regret. "Alas, his Holiness is already conducting the private service for our congregation," he said, pointing to a considerably smaller church barely visible behind a cluster of trees, "and afterwards he will be undergoing the Sunday meditation. But please, let us tarry no longer."

Berwald swallowed an angry retort and followed the monk through the open doors, watching the prisoners advance through the two rows of benches as he himself was guided to a front pew occupied only by the Magistrate, who greeted him with a silent handshake.

* * *

Walking up the long aisle with uncountable pairs of eyes turning to watch his every movement as he passed by was proving to be a more excruciating experience than Lukas had first imagined. His steps resounded on the stone floor, echoed by his brother's behind him, only adding to the uncomfortable feeling of being exposed which he tried to shake off by keeping his head straight and his face devoid of emotion, as his gaze trained on empty space. His eyes darkened in displeasure when a monk's firm hand lead him to the right and forced him to kneel at the bottom of the steps leading to the altar, separating him from Emil who was being guided through the same moves in the opposite direction. He felt almost grateful when the church bell tolled to signal the beginning of the service, making the assembly shift their attention to the succession of prayers, and soon even the monotonous drone of their voices was overwhelmed by the chaos of his thoughts.

He had been lost in his own world for quite a while when a flutter of black robes on the corner of his vision made him flinch and turn his gaze up. Standing on the first step, a monk was using a pair of pincers to hold a burning ember and to let it drop on the waiting surface of an incense burner. Lukas sighed when the stifling smell reached him and tried to dismiss it as one more nuisance he would have to endure, but instead his eyes widened and a chill settled down his spine when the smoke seeping from the lit incense refused to dissipate, gathering instead in a thick, swaying strand which descended to coil around him like a snake. The steady flow of words around him dissolved into incoherent sounds, sometimes whispers sometimes screams as his eyelids dropped and he felt his body sink forward. The ugly clatter of chain on stone sobered him somehow and as his mind and vision cleared, he found himself still kneeling, half reclined with his hands pressed against the floor. The silence now enclosing him felt even more overbearing than the earlier din and as he lifted his head to take in his surroundings, he became aware that the prayers had stopped and all eyes were on him, watching hungrily. Lukas' fingers clutched around the chain to stop it from rattling as he fought to sit upright and, when his back finally straightened, the gaze of the monk behind the altar met his for a moment, full of triumph, daring him to do something reckless. The prayers resumed and Lukas forced himself to remain still, but his head rolled backwards and his eyes fell on the stained glass angel mounted high up on the northern wall. As he watched, the colors ebbed and swirled, and the angel's wings unfolded in a whirlwind of shining white feathers.

* * *

Author's note: I decided to split this monster of a chapter in two, because taking into account how much free time I have left to write, there's no way I can post the entire thing this year or even by next weekend (I'll try though). For those of you who are still following this story, I'm really sorry for taking so long to update, but I'm an awfully slow writer, more so because English is not my native language and this is just my second attempt at fiction of any kind. I have the entire plot outlined in my head and I will not let the story unfinished.

Thank you so much for reading, and a Happy New Year to everyone!


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